CAMILLA now thought herself safe in harbour; the storms all over, the dangers all past, and but a light gale1 or two wanting to make good her landing on the bosom2 of permanent repose3. This gale, this propitious4 gale, she thought ready to blow at her call; for she deemed it no other than the breath of jealousy5. She had seen Edgar, though he knew her to be protected, follow her to the coach, and she had seen, by the light afforded from the lamps of the carriage, that her safety from the crowd and tumult6 was not the sole object of his watchfulness7, since though that, at the instant she turned round, was obviously secure, his countenance8 exhibited the strongest marks of disturbance9. The secret spring, therefore, she now thought, that was to re-unite them, was in her own possession.
All the counsels of Mrs. Arlbery upon this subject occurred to her; and imagining she had hitherto erred10 from a simple facility, she rejoiced in the accident which had pointed11 her to a safer path, and shewn her that, in the present disordered state of the opinions of Edgar, the only way to a lasting12 accommodation was to alarm his security, by asserting her own independence.
Her difficulty, however, was still considerable as to the means. The severe punishment she had received, and the self blame and penitence14 she had incurred15, from her experiment with Sir Sedley Clarendel, all rendered, too, abortive16, by Edgar’s contempt of the object, determined17 her to suffer no hopes, no feelings of her own, to engross18 her ever more from weighing those of another. The end, therefore, of her deliberation was to shew general gaiety, without appropriate favour, and to renew solicitude19 on his part by a displayed ease of mind on her own.
Elated with this idea, she determined upon every possible public exhibition by which she could execute it to the best advantage. Mrs. Berlinton had but to appear, to secure the most fashionable persons at Southampton for her parties, and soon renewed the same course of life she had lived at Tunbridge, of seeing company either at home or abroad every day, except when some accidental plan offered a scheme of more novelty.
Upon all these occasions, young Westwyn, though wholly unsought, and even unthought of by Camilla, was instinctively22 and incautiously the most alert to second her plan; he was her first partner when she danced, her constant attendant when she walked, and always in wait to converse23 with her when she was seated; while, not purposing to engage him, she perceived not his fast growing regard, and intending to be open to all alike, observed not the thwarting24 effect to her design of this peculiar25 assiduity.
By old Mr. Westwyn this intercourse26 was yet more urgently forwarded. Bewitched with Camilla, he carried his son to her wherever she appeared, and said aloud to every body but herself: ‘If the boy and girl like one another, they shall have one another; and I won’t inquire what she’s worth; for she thinks so well of my son, that I’d rather he’d have her than an empress. Money goes but a little way to make people happy; and true love’s not a thing to be got every day; so if she has a mind to my Hal, and Hal has a mind to her, why, if they have not enough, he must work hard and get more. I don’t like to cross young people. Better let a man labour with his hands, than fret27 away his spirit. Neither a boy nor a girl are good for much when they’ve got their hearts broke.’
This new experiment of Camilla, like every other deduced from false reasoning, and formed upon false principles, was flattering in its promise, pernicious in its progress, and abortive in its performance. Edgar saw with agony what he conceived the ascendance of a new attachment28 built upon the declension of all regard for himself; and in the first horror of his apprehensions29, would have resisted the supplanter30 by enforcing his own final claim; but Dr. Marchmont represented that, since he had heard in silence his right to that claim solemnly withdrawn31, he had better first ascertain32 if this apparent connection with young Westwyn were the motive33, or only the consequence of that resumption: ‘If the first be the case,’ he added, ‘you must trust her no more; a heart so inflammable as to be kindled34 into passion by a mere35 accidental blaze of gallantry and valour, can have nothing in consonance with the chaste36 purity and fidelity37 your character requires and merits: If the last, investigate whether the net in which she is entangling38 herself is that of levity39, delighting in change, or of pique40, disguising its own agitation41 in efforts to agitate42 others.’
‘Alas!’ cried the melancholy43 Edgar, ‘in either case, she is no more the artless Camilla I first adored! that fatal connection at the Grove44, formed while her character, pure, white, and spotless, was in its enchanting45, but dangerous state of first ductility46, has already broken into that clear transparent47 singleness of mind, so beautiful in its total ignorance of every species of scheme, every sort of double measure, every idea of secret view and latent expedient48!’
‘Repine not, however, at the connection till you know whether she owe to it her defects, or only their manifestation49. A man should see the woman he would marry in many situations, ere he can judge what chance he may have of happiness with her in any. Though now and then ’tis a blessed, ’tis always a perilous50 state; but the man who has to weather its storms, should not be remiss51 in studying the clouds which precede them.’
‘Ah, Doctor! by this delay... by these experiments... should I lose her!... ’
‘If by finding her unworthy, where is the loss?’
Edgar sighed, but acknowledged this question to be unanswerable.
‘Think, my dear young friend, what would be your sufferings to discover any radical52, inherent failing, when irremediably her’s ! run not into the very common error of depending upon the gratitude53 of your wife after marriage, for the inequality of her fortune before your union. She who has no fortune at all, owes you no more for your alliance, than she who has thousands; for you do not marry her because she has no fortune! you marry her because you think she has some endowment, mental or personal, which you conclude will conduce to your happiness; and she, on her part, accepts you, because she supposes you or your situation will contribute to her’s . The object may be different, but neither side is indebted to the other, since each has self, only, in contemplation; and thus, in fact, rich or poor, high or low, whatever be the previous distinction between the parties, on the hour of marriage they begin as equals. The obligation and the debt of gratitude can only commence when the knot is tied: self, then, may give way to sympathy; and whichever, from that moment, most considers the other, becomes immediately the creditor55 in the great account of life and happiness.’
* * *
While Camilla, in gay ignorance of danger, and awake only to hope, pursued her new course, Eugenia had the infinite delight of improving daily and even hourly in the good graces of Mrs. Berlinton; who soon discovered how wide from justice to that excellent young creature was all judgment56 that could be formed from her appearance. She found that she was as elegant in her taste for letters as herself, and far more deeply cultivated in their knowledge; that her manners were gentle, her sentiments were elevated, yet that her mind was humble57; the same authors delighted and the same passages struck them; they met every morning; they thought every morning too short, and their friendship, in a very few days, knit by so many bands of sympathy, was as fully58 established as that which already Mrs. Berlinton had formed with Camilla.
To Eugenia this treaty of amity59 was a delicious poison, which, while it enchanted60 her faculties61 by day, preyed62 upon her vitals by night. She frequently saw Melmond, and though a melancholy bow was almost all the notice she ever obtained from him, the countenance with which he made it, his air, his figure, his face, nay63 his very dress, for the half instant he bestowed64 upon her, occupied all her thoughts till she saw him again, and had another to con13 over and dwell upon.
Melmond, inexpressibly wretched at the deprivation65 of all hope of Indiana, at the very period when fortune seemed to favour his again pursuing her, dreamt not of this partiality. His time was devoted66 to deliberating upon some lucrative67 scheme of future life, which his literary turn of mind rendered difficult of selection, and which his refined love of study and retirement68 made hateful to him to undertake.
He was kind, however, and even consoling to his aunt, who saw his nearly desolate69 state with a compunction bitterly increased by finding she had thrown their joint70 properties, with her own person, into the hands of a rapacious71 tyrant72. To soften73 her repentance74, and allow her the soothing75 of all she could spare of her own time, Mrs. Berlinton invited her to her own house. Mr. Ulst, of course included in the invitation, made the removal with alacrity76, not for the pleasure it procured77 his wife, but for the money it saved himself; and Mrs. Mittin voluntarily resigned to them the apartment she had chosen for her own, by way of a little peace-offering for her undesired length of stay; for still, though incessantly78 Camilla inquired for her account, she had received no answer from the creditors79, and was obliged to wait for another and another post.
Mrs. Ulst, though not well enough, at present, to see company, and at all times, fanatically averse80 to every species of recreation, could not entirely81 avoid Eugenia, whose visits were constant every morning, and whose expected inheritance made a similar wish occur for her nephew, with that which had disposed of her niece; for she flattered herself that if once she could see them both in possession of greath wealth, her mind would be more at ease.
She communicated this idea to Mr. Ulst, who, most willing, also, to get rid of the reproach of the poverty and ruin of Melmond, imparted it, with strong exhortation82 for its promotion83, to the young man; but he heard with disdain84 the mercenary project, and protested he would daily labour for his bread, in preference to prostituting his probity85, by soliciting86 a regard he could never return, for the acquirement of a fortune which he never could merit.
Mr. Ulst, much too hard to feel this as any reflection upon himself, applied87 for the interest of Mrs. Berlinton; but she so completely thought with her brother, that she would not interfere88, till Mr. Ulst made some observations upon Eugenia herself, that inclined her to waver.
He soon remarked, in that young and artless character, the symptoms of the partiality she had conceived in favour of Melmond, which, when once pointed out, could not be mistaken by Mrs. Berlinton, who, though more than equally susceptible89 with Eugenia, was self-occupied, and saw neither her emotion at his name, nor her timid air at his approach, till Mr. Ulst, whose discernment had been quickened by his wishes, told her when, and for what, to look.
Touched now, herself, by the double happiness that might ensue, from a gratified choice to Eugenia, and a noble fortune to her brother, she took up the cause, with delicacy90, yet with pity; representing all the charming mental and intellectual accomplishments91 of Eugenia, and beseeching92 him not to sacrifice both his interest and his peace, in submitting to a hopeless passion for one object, while he inflicted93 all its horrors upon another.
Melmond, amazed and softened94, listened and sighed; but protested such a change, from all of beauty to all of deformity, was impracticable; and that though he revered95 the character she painted, and was sensible to the honour of such a preference, he must be base, double, and perjured96, to take advantage of her great, yet unaccountable goodness, by heartless professions of feigned97 participation98.
Mrs. Berlinton, to whom sentiment was irresistible99, urged the matter no longer, but wept over her brother, with compassionate100 admiration101.
Another day only passed, when Mrs. Mittin picked up a paper upon the stairs, which she saw fall from the pocket of Eugenia, in drawing out her handkerchief, but which, determining to read ere she returned, she found contained these lines.
‘O Reason! friend of the troubled breast, guide of the wayward fancy, moderator of the flights of hope, and sinkings of despair, Eugenia calls thee!’
O! to a feeble, suppliant102 Maid,
Light of Reason, lend thy aid!
And with thy mild, thy lucid103 ray,
Point her the way
To genial104 calm and mental joy!
From Passion far! whose flashes bright
Startle-affright–
Yet ah! invite!
With varying powers attract, repel105,
Now fiercely beam,
Now softly gleam,
With magic spell
Charm to consume, win to destroy!
Ah! lead her from the chequer’d glare
So false, so fair!–
Ah, quick from Passion bid her fly,
Its sway repulse106, its wiles107 defy;
And to a feeble, suppliant heart
Thy aid, O Reason’s light, impart!
Next, Eugenia, point thy prayer
That He whom all thy wishes bless,
Whom all thy tenderest thoughts confess,
Thy calm may prove, thy peace may share.
O, if the griefs to him assign’d,
To thee might pass-thy strengthened mind
Would meet all woe108, support all pain,
Suffering despise, complaint disdain,
Brac’d with new nerves each ill would brave,
From Melmond but one pang109 to save!’
Overjoyed by the possession of the important secret, this little juvenile110 effusion of tenderness betrayed, Mrs. Mittin ran with it to Mrs. Berlinton, and without mentioning she had seen whence the paper came, said she had found it upon the stairs: for even those who have too little delicacy to attribute to treachery a clandestine111 indulgence of curiosity, have a certain instinctive21 sense of its unfairness, which they evince without avowing112, by the care with which they soften their motives113, or their manner, of according themselves this species of gratification.
Mrs. Berlinton, who scrupulously114 would have withheld115 from looking into a letter, could not see a copy of verses, and recognise the hand of Eugenia, already known to her by frequent notes, and refrain reading. That she should find any thing personal, did not occur to her; to peruse116, therefore, a manuscript ode or sonnet117, which the humility118 of Eugenia might never voluntarily reveal, caused her no hesitation119; and she ran through the lines with the warmest delight, till, coming suddenly upon the end, she burst into tears, and flew to the apartment of her brother.
She put the paper into his hand without a word. He read it hastily. Surprised, confounded, disordered, he looked at his sister for some explanation or comment; she was still silently in tears; he read it again, and with yet greater emotion; when, holding it back to her, ‘Why, my sister,’ he cried, ‘why would she give you this? why would you deliver it? Ah! leave me, in pity, firm in integrity, though fallen in fortune!’
‘My brother, my dear brother, this matchless creature merits not so degrading an idea; she gave me not the precious paper... she knows not I possess it; it was found upon the stairs: Ah! far from thus openly confessing her unhappy prepossession, she conceals120 it from every human being; even her beloved sister, I am convinced, is untrusted; upon paper only she has breathed it, and breathed it as you see... with a generosity121 of soul that is equal to the delicacy of her conduct.’
Melmond now felt subdued122. To have excited such a regard in a mind that seemed so highly cultivated, and so naturally elegant, could not fail to touch him; and the concluding line deeply penetrated123 him with tender though melancholy gratitude. He took the hand of his sister, returned her the paper, and was going to say: ‘Do whatever you think proper;’ but the idea of losing all right to adore Indiana checked and silenced him; and mournfully telling her he required a little time for reflection, he entreated124 to be left to himself.
He was not suffered to ruminate125 in quiet; Mrs. Mittin, proud of having any thing to communicate to a relation of Mrs. Berlinton’s , made in opportunity to sit with Mrs. Ulst, purposely to communicate to her the discovery that Miss Eugenia Tyrold was in love with, and wrote verses upon, her nephew. Melmond was instantly sent for; the important secret was enlarged upon with remonstrances126 so pathetic, not to throw away such an invitation to the most brilliant good fortune, in order to cast himself, with his vainly nourished passion, upon immediate54 hardships, or lasting penury127; that reason as well as interest, compelled him to listen; and, after a severe conflict, he gave his reluctant promise to see Eugenia upon her next visit, and endeavour to bias128 his mind to the connexion that seemed likely to ensue.
Camilla, who was in total ignorance of the whole of this business, received, during the dinner, an incoherent note from her sister, conjuring129 that she would search immediately, but privately130, in her own chamber131, in the dressing-room of Mrs. Berlinton, in the hall, and upon the stairs, for a paper in her handwriting, which she had somewhere lost, but which she besought132 her, by all that she held dear, not to read when she found; protesting she should shut herself up for ever from the whole world, if a syllable133 of what she had written on that paper were read by a human being.
Camilla could not endure to keep her sister a moment in this suspensive state, and made an excuse for quitting the table that she might instantly seek the manuscript. Melmond and Mrs. Berlinton both conjectured134 the contents of the billet, and felt much for the modest and timid Eugenia; but Mrs. Mittin could not confine herself to silent suggestion; she rose also, and running after Camilla, said: ‘My dear Miss, has your sister sent to you to look for any thing?’
Camilla asked the meaning of her inquiry135; and she then owned she had picked up, from the stairs, a sort of love letter, in which Miss Eugenia had wrote couplets upon Mr. Melmond.
Inexpressibly astonished, Camilla demanded their restoration; this soon produced a complete explanation, and while, with equal surprise and concern, she learnt the secret of Eugenia, and its discovery to its object, she could not but respect and honour all she gathered from Mrs. Berlinton of the behaviour of her brother upon the detection; and his equal freedom from presumptuous136 vanity, or mercenary projects, induced her to believe her sister’s choice, though wholly new to her, was well founded; and that if he could conquer his early propensity137 for Indiana, he seemed, of all the characters she knew, Edgar alone and always excepted, the most peculiarly formed for the happiness of Eugenia.
She begged to have the paper, and entreated her sister might never know into whose hands it had fallen. This was cheerfully agreed to; but Mrs. Mittin, during the conference, had already flown to Eugenia, and amidst a torrent138 of offers of service, and professions of power to do any thing she pleased for her, suffered her to see that her attachment was betrayed to the whole house.
The agony of Eugenia was excessive; and she resolved to keep her chamber till she returned to Cleves, that she might neither see nor be seen any more by Melmond nor his family. Scarce could she bear to be broken in upon even by Camilla, who tenderly hastened to console her. She hid her blushing conscious face, and protested she would inhabit only her own apartment for the rest of her life.
The active Mrs. Mittin failed not to carry back the history of this resolution; and Melmond, to his unspeakable regret in being thus precipitated139, thought himself called upon in all decency140 and propriety141 to an immediate declaration. He could not, however, assume fortitude142 to make it in person; nor yet was his mind sufficiently143 composed for writing; he commissioned, therefore, his sister to be the bearer of his overtures144.
He charged her to make no mention of the verses, which it was fitting should, on his part, pass unnoticed, though she could not but be sensible his present address was their consequence; he desired her simply to state his high reverence145 for her virtues146 and talents, and his consciousness of the inadequacy147 of his pretensions148 to any claim upon them, except what arose from the grateful integrity of esteem149 with which her happiness should become the first object of his future life, if she forbade not his application for the consent of Sir Hugh and Mr. Tyrold to solicit20 her favour.
With respect to Indiana, he begged her, unless questioned, to be wholly silent. To say his flame for that adorable creature was extinguished would be utterly150 false; but his peace, as much as his honour, would lead him to combat, henceforth, by all the means in his power, his ill-fated and woe-teeming passion.
This commission was in perfect consonance with the feelings of Mrs. Berlinton, who, though with difficulty she gained admission, executed it with the most tender delicacy to the terrified Eugenia, who, amazed and trembling, pale and incredulous, so little understood what she heard, so little was able to believe what she wished, that, when Mrs. Berlinton, with an affectionate embrace, begged her answer, she asked if it was not Indiana of whom she was speaking!
Mrs. Berlinton then thought it right to be explicit151: she acknowledged the early passion of her brother for that young lady, but stated that, long before he had ventured to think of herself, he had determined its conquest; and that what originally was the prudence152 of compulsion, was now, from his altered prospects153 in life, become choice: ‘And believe me,’ added she, ‘from my long and complete knowledge of the honour and the delicacy of his opinion, as well as of the tenderness and gratitude of his nature, the woman who shall once receive his vows154, will find his life devoted to the study of her happiness.’
Eugenia flew into her arms, hung upon her bosom, wept, blushed, smiled, and sighed, alternately; one mornent wished Indiana in possession of her fortune, the next thought she herself, in all but beauty, more formed for his felicity, and ultimately gave her tacit but transported consent to the application.
Melmond, upon receiving it, heaved what he fondly hoped would be his last sigh for Indiana; and ordering his horse, set off immediately for Cleves and Etherington; determined frankly155 to state his small income and crushed expectations; and feeling almost equally indifferent to acceptance or rejection156.
Camilla devoted the afternoon to her agitated157 but enraptured158 sister, who desired her secret might spread no further, till the will of her father and uncle should decide its fate; but the loquacious159 Mrs. Mittin, having some cheap ribands and fine edgings to recommend to Miss Margland and Indiana, could by no means refrain from informing them, at the same time, of the discovered manuscript.
‘Poor thing!’ cried Indiana, ‘I really pity her. I don’t think,’ imperceptibly gliding160 towards the glass; ‘I don’t think, by what I have seen of Mr. Melmond, she has much chance; I’ve a notion he’s rather more difficult.’
‘Really this is what I always expected!’ said Miss Margland; ‘It’s just exactly what one might look for from one of your learned educations, which I always despised with all my heart. Writing love verses at fifteen! Dr. Orkborne’s made a fine hand of her! I always hated him, from the very first. However, I’ve had nothing to do with the bringing her up, that’s my consolation161! I thank Heaven I never made a verse in my life! and I never intend it.’
1 gale | |
n.大风,强风,一阵闹声(尤指笑声等) | |
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2 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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3 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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4 propitious | |
adj.吉利的;顺利的 | |
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5 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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6 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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7 watchfulness | |
警惕,留心; 警觉(性) | |
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8 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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9 disturbance | |
n.动乱,骚动;打扰,干扰;(身心)失调 | |
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10 erred | |
犯错误,做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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12 lasting | |
adj.永久的,永恒的;vbl.持续,维持 | |
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13 con | |
n.反对的观点,反对者,反对票,肺病;vt.精读,学习,默记;adv.反对地,从反面;adj.欺诈的 | |
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14 penitence | |
n.忏悔,赎罪;悔过 | |
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15 incurred | |
[医]招致的,遭受的; incur的过去式 | |
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16 abortive | |
adj.不成功的,发育不全的 | |
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17 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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18 engross | |
v.使全神贯注 | |
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19 solicitude | |
n.焦虑 | |
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20 solicit | |
vi.勾引;乞求;vt.请求,乞求;招揽(生意) | |
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21 instinctive | |
adj.(出于)本能的;直觉的;(出于)天性的 | |
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22 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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23 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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24 thwarting | |
阻挠( thwart的现在分词 ); 使受挫折; 挫败; 横过 | |
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25 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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26 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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27 fret | |
v.(使)烦恼;(使)焦急;(使)腐蚀,(使)磨损 | |
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28 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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29 apprehensions | |
疑惧 | |
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30 supplanter | |
排挤者,取代者 | |
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31 withdrawn | |
vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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32 ascertain | |
vt.发现,确定,查明,弄清 | |
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33 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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34 kindled | |
(使某物)燃烧,着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 ); 激起(感情等); 发亮,放光 | |
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35 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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36 chaste | |
adj.贞洁的;有道德的;善良的;简朴的 | |
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37 fidelity | |
n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
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38 entangling | |
v.使某人(某物/自己)缠绕,纠缠于(某物中),使某人(自己)陷入(困难或复杂的环境中)( entangle的现在分词 ) | |
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39 levity | |
n.轻率,轻浮,不稳定,多变 | |
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40 pique | |
v.伤害…的自尊心,使生气 n.不满,生气 | |
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41 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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42 agitate | |
vi.(for,against)煽动,鼓动;vt.搅动 | |
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43 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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44 grove | |
n.林子,小树林,园林 | |
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45 enchanting | |
a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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46 ductility | |
n.展延性,柔软性,顺从;韧性;塑性;展性 | |
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47 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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48 expedient | |
adj.有用的,有利的;n.紧急的办法,权宜之计 | |
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49 manifestation | |
n.表现形式;表明;现象 | |
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50 perilous | |
adj.危险的,冒险的 | |
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51 remiss | |
adj.不小心的,马虎 | |
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52 radical | |
n.激进份子,原子团,根号;adj.根本的,激进的,彻底的 | |
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53 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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54 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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55 creditor | |
n.债仅人,债主,贷方 | |
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56 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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57 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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58 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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59 amity | |
n.友好关系 | |
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60 enchanted | |
adj. 被施魔法的,陶醉的,入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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61 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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62 preyed | |
v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 );掠食;折磨;(人)靠欺诈为生 | |
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63 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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64 bestowed | |
赠给,授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65 deprivation | |
n.匮乏;丧失;夺去,贫困 | |
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66 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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67 lucrative | |
adj.赚钱的,可获利的 | |
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68 retirement | |
n.退休,退职 | |
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69 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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70 joint | |
adj.联合的,共同的;n.关节,接合处;v.连接,贴合 | |
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71 rapacious | |
adj.贪婪的,强夺的 | |
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72 tyrant | |
n.暴君,专制的君主,残暴的人 | |
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73 soften | |
v.(使)变柔软;(使)变柔和 | |
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74 repentance | |
n.懊悔 | |
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75 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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76 alacrity | |
n.敏捷,轻快,乐意 | |
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77 procured | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 );拉皮条 | |
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78 incessantly | |
ad.不停地 | |
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79 creditors | |
n.债权人,债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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80 averse | |
adj.厌恶的;反对的,不乐意的 | |
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81 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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82 exhortation | |
n.劝告,规劝 | |
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83 promotion | |
n.提升,晋级;促销,宣传 | |
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84 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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85 probity | |
n.刚直;廉洁,正直 | |
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86 soliciting | |
v.恳求( solicit的现在分词 );(指娼妇)拉客;索求;征求 | |
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87 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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88 interfere | |
v.(in)干涉,干预;(with)妨碍,打扰 | |
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89 susceptible | |
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
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90 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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91 accomplishments | |
n.造诣;完成( accomplishment的名词复数 );技能;成绩;成就 | |
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92 beseeching | |
adj.恳求似的v.恳求,乞求(某事物)( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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93 inflicted | |
把…强加给,使承受,遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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95 revered | |
v.崇敬,尊崇,敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96 perjured | |
adj.伪证的,犯伪证罪的v.发假誓,作伪证( perjure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97 feigned | |
a.假装的,不真诚的 | |
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98 participation | |
n.参与,参加,分享 | |
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99 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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100 compassionate | |
adj.有同情心的,表示同情的 | |
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101 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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102 suppliant | |
adj.哀恳的;n.恳求者,哀求者 | |
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103 lucid | |
adj.明白易懂的,清晰的,头脑清楚的 | |
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104 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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105 repel | |
v.击退,抵制,拒绝,排斥 | |
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106 repulse | |
n.击退,拒绝;vt.逐退,击退,拒绝 | |
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107 wiles | |
n.(旨在欺骗或吸引人的)诡计,花招;欺骗,欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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108 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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109 pang | |
n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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110 juvenile | |
n.青少年,少年读物;adj.青少年的,幼稚的 | |
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111 clandestine | |
adj.秘密的,暗中从事的 | |
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112 avowing | |
v.公开声明,承认( avow的现在分词 ) | |
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113 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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114 scrupulously | |
adv.一丝不苟地;小心翼翼地,多顾虑地 | |
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115 withheld | |
withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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116 peruse | |
v.细读,精读 | |
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117 sonnet | |
n.十四行诗 | |
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118 humility | |
n.谦逊,谦恭 | |
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119 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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120 conceals | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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121 generosity | |
n.大度,慷慨,慷慨的行为 | |
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122 subdued | |
adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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123 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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124 entreated | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125 ruminate | |
v.反刍;沉思 | |
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126 remonstrances | |
n.抱怨,抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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127 penury | |
n.贫穷,拮据 | |
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128 bias | |
n.偏见,偏心,偏袒;vt.使有偏见 | |
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129 conjuring | |
n.魔术 | |
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130 privately | |
adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
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131 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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132 besought | |
v.恳求,乞求(某事物)( beseech的过去式和过去分词 );(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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133 syllable | |
n.音节;vt.分音节 | |
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134 conjectured | |
推测,猜测,猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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136 presumptuous | |
adj.胆大妄为的,放肆的,冒昧的,冒失的 | |
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137 propensity | |
n.倾向;习性 | |
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138 torrent | |
n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
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139 precipitated | |
v.(突如其来地)使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 );促成;猛然摔下;使沉淀 | |
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140 decency | |
n.体面,得体,合宜,正派,庄重 | |
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141 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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142 fortitude | |
n.坚忍不拔;刚毅 | |
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143 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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144 overtures | |
n.主动的表示,提议;(向某人做出的)友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 );(歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的)序曲,前奏曲 | |
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145 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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146 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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147 inadequacy | |
n.无法胜任,信心不足 | |
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148 pretensions | |
自称( pretension的名词复数 ); 自命不凡; 要求; 权力 | |
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149 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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150 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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151 explicit | |
adj.详述的,明确的;坦率的;显然的 | |
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152 prudence | |
n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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153 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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154 vows | |
誓言( vow的名词复数 ); 郑重宣布,许愿 | |
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155 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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156 rejection | |
n.拒绝,被拒,抛弃,被弃 | |
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157 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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158 enraptured | |
v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159 loquacious | |
adj.多嘴的,饶舌的 | |
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160 gliding | |
v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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161 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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